


Leverage

by Chromophilic_Daydream



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Angst, Asphyxiation, Implied Child Abuse, Light Torture, M/M, PTSD, Pre Missing Kings, Self-Harm, Some canon events apply but not all, canon character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromophilic_Daydream/pseuds/Chromophilic_Daydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yata didn't know why this happened so easily to him. Not that he was ever a level headed person, and his spitfire personality is what always got him recognized but in turn always made him stand out. And Fushimi Saruhiko of the special military unit Scepter 4, knew how to make his anger boil over until there was nothing but steam and static left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sell Me Lies.

**Author's Note:**

> This beast is something I've been working on for a while. I advise reading the tags since there are a few heavy subjects addressed in the duration of the work. I want to give a huge shout out to both my wife, who has been so wonderful and supportive and talked me through a lot of this, and to melonflesh for beta'ing and helping me with my obviously flawed English. You both are incredible.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

 

"State your name and position."

  
The phrase was muffled under the pressure of the noise piercing into his ears, but he still managed to make out the words. Anything breaking up the monotony of the noise that'd been humming loudly for hours now (was it hours?) was welcomed eagerly into his present state of mind. It was almost pathetic how desperately he clung onto a new sound, like this would soon be over. It seemed like he had been there for days, but he knew it wasn't possible. However, the ever-present hum made him lose track of time. That fuzzy, electronic noise with no discernible substance, just a constant ringing ate away at his eardrums. It had found its way into his brain and he wasn't sure how much more he could take of it. After so much time of nothing but buzzing, high pitched sounds clapped around his head, the low tone of speech almost took his breath away. Not that that was hard to do presently. He wasn't breathing all that well either with the burlap bag that was engulfing his entire head.

  
His airways were even more restricted than if he just had the open weave sack tied off around his neck, for the bag was wet, making air even harder to pass through the woven fabric. After just minutes (seconds? Hours?) of constant inhaling and exhaling the same recycled breath, he felt his head get lighter and lighter as it was deprived of oxygen. He didn't know how long he had had it on either, but it had been sometime after the screeching headphones were applied to his ears. In that time he swore he blacked out for moments, but had no way of being completely sure.

Mercifully, seconds after that muffled command snapped him out of the daze he had been in, the sack came off with a swift tug.

  
He gasped. His lungs immediately expanded, choking on the sudden supply of fresh air that was allowed to him. That was when the headphones were snatched off. The buzzing continued after the device was removed, coupled with the now free air made his stomach churn and he would have vomited that instant if he had had any food in his system.

Regardless, he heaved and coughed on sweet, warm oxygen. His head was spinning and his world went dark and quiet-

Just to be brought back by an extremely bright light that blinded his one good eye. He felt tears pricking almost instantly. Fuck, that was bright. He unconsciously struggled against the restraints that latched his wrists to the stiff metal chair that he had been linked to for however long he had been in the room.

  
The humming in his ears continued as he tried to regain his composure. Swallowing dryly, he sat back, straining to look at anything but the harsh light that was flooding his vision. He felt sick again.

"Uncomfortable?" The voice, now cleaner and crisper than ever, asked. A light air of feigned pleasantness masked the question. Of course he was uncomfortable, that was the whole point. Fucking idle chitchat, if his wrists were free he would have gone down fighting. His natural "fight or die fighting" senses were gunning in his veins, his blood boiling from that arrogant jest of that fucking traitor.

"I can make it easier for you, just state your name and position for the records." A shadow crossed the room, stepping in front of the light, allowing him a short relief from what he felt was an attempt to completely blind him.

He stayed quiet, however. That was the goal, to stay quiet and not to lose his cool, not to give away a single shred of information, but the urge to resist sneering at his questioner was harder to suppress than biting his tongue and he let a small smirk out.

_Neither confirm nor deny, but keep your mind stable and give them a reason to keep you alive._

Those were the words that coaxed him from snapping. No way in hell he was giving in this easily. The tingling in his ears turned to a dull throbbing and his chest hurt from being deprived of oxygen so long but other than that, he was ready for whatever this asshole decided to dish out. He was going to make Mikoto proud of him.

"I see. You seem to think this is a game." The blinding light came back with a vengeance. He flinched and closed his twitching eye tightly. It was a game and he had to hold out and keep telling himself that this was nothing. Nothing this asshole dished out meant anything in the long run.

"Does the light hurt, Misaki? Why don't you just state your name and position and I'll turn it off for you, since we're friends now."

"Fuck you, we're not friends." It was instinctual to shoot back with such venom. He cursed himself silently for caving into the impulse so quickly. He was a rock, a sturdy, unyielding force to be reckoned with. He was Homra's third in command, the protector, the iron wall of the defense line for a group that held his pride and honor. Even so, with his goals booming in his mind in attempts to keep him level headed in this hellhole, he snapped and crumbled so easily. His resolve weakened and he did the one thing his pride demanded, almost on command. Like he were programmed to respond, like this man wired circuits into his brains and knew what buttons to hit to make him become unglued with the mere mention of his first name, like they were the best of buddies anyone had ever seen.

He didn't know why this happened so easily to him. Not that he was ever a level headed person, and his spitfire personality is what always got him recognized but in turn always made him stand out. And Fushimi Saruhiko of the special military unit Scepter 4, knew how to make his anger boil over until there was nothing but steam and static left. And it was Fushimi Saruhiko's voice that lulled him away from the insanity that was numbing his brain just minutes ago.

  
"Is that so? Come now, Misaki. Aren't we past this point? You must be tired of all this. You've been in here for so long, didn't you know? Longer than you think." That voice that was laced with sarcasm and a vibrato of fake cheeriness made his stomach clench worse than the sensation he experienced when that pointless noise was still buzzing in his ears. This was not the voice of the man he used to call his friend.

No, that Saruhiko left him almost two years ago. That Saruhiko was quiet and quick witted, decisive and cold but never cruel... at least to him. Saruhiko who helped him bandage up his injuries and snapped at him to be more careful during fights. The Saruhiko who saved him in just as many ways as he saved Saruhiko.

They were each other's heroes at that point when they were reckless and free to topple the world however they chose to do it. They could do anything as long as they had each other. Calm and rational, poised with a cool air about him. That was the Fushimi Saruhiko he knew. That was the Fushimi Saruhiko he acknowledged as his friend. The memories surfaced at the very edge of his consciousness as he tried to calm himself down.

But when the man who paraded around in his old friend's skin blocked the painful light with his body and settled into a chair across from the rusted table that separated them, Yata was able to take an eyeful of him and found the twisted corners of his mouth as cringing as the white beam that had been blinding him seconds before.

In fact, it was the only thing his eye could strain to see, every other feature of him was dark, a vague outline of black against the spotlight around him.

Perhaps he was imagining the smirk but he knew it was there, taunting him.

"They told you that you'd be in here for just 24 hours, right? Well, they lied to you Misaki. You've been in here for 36. Do you feel like you're going crazy? I can leave you in here for even longer since we're 'not friends'. Hm? What do you say, Misaki? Want me to put the headphones back on and leave you in here for another 36 hours? Or would you like me to take the cuffs off of you and bring you food? Be your savior and let you live?"

He gritted his teeth to the point he could swear one would break. If his hands were free he would deck his lying ass. His composure was quickly dissolving, he could feel anger searing in his bones as a dull ache settled in and made his joints hurt. His stomach growled with hunger that he had been neglecting to acknowledge. He breathed in and out, in and out in, shallow then deep. There was no way he had been sitting in here for that long. It broke the rules. Mikoto, Kusanagi... Whoever was watching would have grabbed him out of there if that had been the case.

But the smug hum of the man across from him made him question his own certainty, just a quiver of doubt clouded his mind. Maybe he had been in here for that long? Maybe that was all part of this stupid test.

No, no. This was deception. The rules were very clear. And Saruhiko was a liar. A traitor. That meant he was very good at this game of using people. Just like he used him all those years ago. Right now, they were preparing for being taken at war, but this was no war, no matter how much his stomach clenched with the thought that this could actually happen. There were no external forces that could kill him if they deemed him unnecessary to keep around. The only people in this room were on the same team. It sure as hell didn't feel like it though. It wasn't supposed to feel like it, not at this time anyway. Though he knew they would never actually be allies. Treaties would come and go but he and Saruhiko would never be what they were before.

No, Saruhiko destroyed everything they were when he turned his back on him and left him. What ever happened to their promises, their lives together, he probably would never know. All he knew now is that every ounce of his being wanted to wipe that obnoxious smirk off his old friend's face, to show him how he really felt about him. It had been exhausting being around him as much as he had the last couple of weeks since this temporary alliance formed and now that he was alone in a room with him without much ability to fight back, he felt more defeated than he ever had.

But who better to practice this than the person who knew you the most?

Or at least that's what he was officially told when they were partnered up for this, it took both Kusanagi and Anna to calm him down, like that asshole blue king who stole Saruhiko away from them, from him, knew anything... like that shitty monkey knew anything about him anymore.

Yata shifted uncomfortably and kept his lips hard pressed, teeth biting into the edges to keep from spitting out hateful words. He ventured to open his eye for a second and instantly felt it close through reflex from the steady beam of light.

"Hm, bad form you know, keeping your savior waiting for an answer for so long." The tone that answered him was surprisingly... docile. The light that was threatening his vision died completely and a normal, flickering overhead light clicked on with a soft 'pop'.

  
He had been given a reward for doing absolutely nothing his captor asked. He took in a deep breath and braced himself, knowing that soon he would have to endure a lot to make up for the thankless favor.

Suddenly everything was easier to comprehend and the situation that he was in fully hit him with the clearing of colored spots from his sight. Yata grimaced with obvious dismay at the cold blue eyes that were zeroed in on him. They were easy to spot even under the glare of the familiar glasses and dark bangs in front of them. He was sitting in a chair not much more comfortable looking than the one the Homra Vanguard was in, but he was sitting forward, perched and alert. His gloved hands were supporting his chin that postured an air of obligation. He obviously didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be. Yata was going to make him stay as long as he could out of spite.

"State your name and position for the records so we can get this over with. It's actually against policy to keep people subjected to conditioning for more than 30 hours and I'm well past that limit. But the paperwork will be the same so I'm sure a few more hours wouldn't hurt you any, Misaki."

Yata frowned. Shit, he had been in here that long then? A sudden wave a dread washed over him. Of course, of course he had been in here longer than 30 hours. It had all been a trick, these rules. Part of the conditioning probably, to lie in the entire set up of this stupid exercise, to make him even more susceptible to questioning.

  
This is why he hated the fucking tricky blue clan with every ounce of blood in his body.

Homra was so much more free, they were rebels, protecting the innocent on the streets from the war that had broken out years ago. There were so many people who needed protecting and the government had too many regulations about weaponry and funding that bands of smaller groups got together to take the city back from scum that profited from civilians killing each other. They were heroes, Homra was. Their small numbers back in the day boomed once people saw the good of what they were doing. They often took out crooks, thieves, murderers even. As long as they could help someone, they were the people to do it. No one fucked with them either. They were tough and intimidating, and their King, the one who indoctrinated members into their clan of guerrilla soldiers, was the most powerful man Yata had ever met.

Suoh Mikoto was awe-inspiring, a silent force to be reckoned with. He was strong and terrifying. When he saw him for the first time, he knew in his heart that he was going to become him one day. Everything about him radiated a level of intensity that he knew no one would want to mess with him. That kind of power was intoxicating so it was only natural to join him, to protect those who couldn't be protected. If he had that power, that power of burning, wild flames earlier, he might not have suffered as much as he had... they might not have suffered as badly as they had.

Homra was his home, and he was glad to call that man his King. He was proud to be a member of a group that was making such a difference. He made it through the ranks so quickly because he was worthy of it. The installation of his aura was easy for him, felt like he found a missing piece that was severed from him when he was born. Power to make sure that bad things wouldn't happen to him or anyone else he cared about ever again. That was the promise he and the man that was questioning him now made to each other back when they were barely old enough to understand the severity of the world they lived in. Homra was a way for them never to be hurt ever again.

Now they were sitting across from each other, keeping each other's gaze with a stubborn heat that made the room feel even warmer. Mikoto was probably watching him now, he knew it, and he was going to make him even prouder to call Yata Homra's Vanguard. He was going to make Totsuka proud of him too.

After minutes of silence passed, the blue clansman sighed and reached down below where Yata could see. He pulled out a file folder and threw it on the desk but didn't say anything. He opened the folder and thumbed through the document, muttering under his breath. Yata held himself up, determining whatever was in that folder was nothing but a pack of lies to make him talk. He wasn't going to.

Fucking blues were so god damn obnoxious, he could see how Saruhiko fit right in.

The aforementioned gave a very audible sigh and leaned forward. Yata smirked, knowing exactly what that sigh meant; Saruhiko was getting tired of playing around. It was a sign that met his ear every time they fought outside these walls. Things were about to get seriously... fun. Yata was ready for the challenge, after all, he made it this far.  
He watched as Saruhiko leafed through some of the pages.

"Your name and position." The boredom in his voice etched into his eardrums, reminding him of the mess of noise that was hammering his head just a few minutes ago.

  
"I can do this all day, Misaki. I also have enough evidence that I don't actually need you to state your name, but I can put the headphones back on. I have a nice collection of screaming if the white noise was too boring for you."

A scowl passed over Yata's face and he kicked at the leg of the table. Fuck. His pride was eating him alive, but when he saw Saruhiko reach for the headphones that were laying dormant on the table he cleared his throat.

"Yata Misaki, Vanguard of Homra. That's all you're getting out of me, you fucking monkey." A short, amused laugh responded to him and he let out a small sign of relief when the headphones were dropped back on the table.

"Okay, Yata Misaki, Vanguard of Homra, thank you for your compliance. I'm sure you know why you were brought here and what I'll be asking, I ask for your willingness to answer all my questions." Formalities, all these fucking dull formalities were really starting to irritate him again.

Yata watched the folder open again and pictures were pushed towards him. The light overhead was dim and the papers were difficult to make out but some looked like a newspaper clippings and...

He felt his stomach climb up his throat and his blood turn cold. That guy. That fucking lunatic who killed Totsuka smiled up at him. The whole reason why this bullshit was even happening to Homra right now, the very culprit that they were trying to find.

"Hmm, recognize him? Do you know his name?" The vanguard's fist clenched against his restraints, His nerves surged with fire that hummed constantly in his blood, a soft glow of red began to engulf him.

"What the fuck does this asshole have anything to do with th-"

"I believe I'm the one asking the questions, remember? You'll get your turn eventually. Do you know his name? I think you actually do." Saruhiko cut him off, pushing the picture even closer to the edge of the table and continued, "I mean not directly, you're too dense to put two and two together, I think. Maybe Kusanagi would have been the better of the two to ask but I was stuck with you. I mean, I'm sure you don't recognize him like this but it seems your little group of useless thugs has had quite a lot of dealings with him. Maybe you should just tell me all about Homra's weapon dealer."

Slowly, ever so slowly, Yata took in a deep breath, his mind racing. His glaze hardened as he glanced from the picture, up into the bored face of a decorated officer who just made a very serious accusation. Things really didn't add up at all. The dots that were connecting felt like needles pricking him in the chest.

"This isn't our weapon's dealer." He said in a hushed tone, not knowing why all of the sudden his voice had been robbed of him, his sureness had been wiped clean by simple words that were shrouded in simple lies. He knew better.

"Is that so?" Arrogant and amused, that question that mocked him and rightfully so. Yata clenched his fist and forced himself to look anywhere but at the sadistic smile that adorned both the man in the picture and the man who sat across from him.

Homra had been gaining a lot of heat, even before Totsuka... died a few weeks ago, months before, in fact. Kusanagi had made the executive decision that since they were being targeted so heavily through the use of their aura, their clan would start carrying martial weapons and not rely on their powers as much. Yata actually took it the hardest, not understanding why they were given illegal guns and knives to defend themselves. The pride that was everything Homra stood for, everything HE stood for, took a blow that day that the heavy firearm was placed in his hands.

True, the fighting had gotten out of hand, with the fucking blues breathing down their necks and the greens being able to disguise themselves and employ stealth attacks on them... he understood now why not flaunting around their red was an important tactical maneuver to keep their comrades safer. It was easier to see a person bursting in flames than a gun hidden in their belt.

Yata never thought to ask where the weapons had come from. Kusanagi never told him and as far as he knew, Mikoto never asked questions about that kind of thing, so neither did he. Everyone was supposed to have them... Except Mikoto wasn't interested in anything like that, not caring about protecting himself. He had no reason to, he was a King and therefore already had the biggest target on his back.

Totsuka decided that since Mikoto didn't need one, neither did he.

It turned out, Totsuka had an even bigger target on his back than Mikoto.

The guns ended up not being able to help save one of their friends in the end. A gun had been the very thing to kill him.

Yata ended up throwing his away in a small river that night Totsuka died, after washing his hands clean of his friend's blood that started to stain his skin in the same, bitterly frigid water. He was too numb to feel just how cold the water was, too numb to feel the tears that flowed just as freely as the currants that swirled around his fingers.

  
Since then, Yata never asked about the weapons. There were more important things to do, like fucking send this so called Colorless King to hell where he belonged.

  
Something in his peripheral brought him back to the present, something sharp and flashing whizzed past his head and Yata's aura immediately surged over his body, and knocked the knife off its given path, making it embed into the wall with a loud clang.

Saruhiko was standing again, eyes set on him with a flash of anger in them. He couldn't help but laugh out loud a little.

"I need your attention on me, Misaki! Who is your weapon's dealer?" There suddenly was a crashing sound at the only door in the room and it made Yata jump. Someone was trying to get in? The doorknob rattled with urgency and his attention flashed from the door to his ex-best friend, whose eyes never left him, even with the sudden attempt of an intrusion. The noise outside almost sounded like voiced, heated but muffled, and the redhead couldn't quite hear exactly what was going on. He tried to concentrate on the traitor who was leaning over the desk, still staring at him intently.

After a spell of silence, Saruhiko reached into his uniform, retrieving another knife. Even with aura resistance handcuffs on, Yata still had enough energy to deflect him. This was almost starting to feel personal and it made him smirk with personal satisfaction that he got under Saruhiko's skin without even trying.

Though... Saruhiko also got under his skin without much effort either, but for now he was the victor and this bastard didn't scare him in the least. He was under orders that he couldn't physically hurt him and he would have with the knife that was currently in the wall if he had any true intention of making him bleed.

The knife that Saruhiko unsheathed never left his hand. His eyes never once diverted from Yata during the last few minutes. With a click of his tongue he got out from behind the desk and walked over to the corner of the room where the bright lights were positioned. Shit, he was going to turn them on again?

Yata squeezed his hazel eye shut in preparation when he heard a small snap sound but no bright light came.

"There now, you don't have to worry about anyone hearing you rat out your dealer."

His breath caught in his throat as the voices on the other side of the door came back, louder this time.

The blue clansman hummed lightly and made his way back over to the table. Yata caught a glimpse of raw wires hanging out of the corner of the room. He cut the feed to the other side?

That was one of his only life-line to getting out of here if things got too personal and now it was gone, overwhelming feeling of helplessness washed over him. At least the window behind the blue clansman was not in any danger of being taken out so they were still being watched.

"I already told you.... I don't know who our arms dealer is. But it isn't that piece of shit." His jaw was set and locked, trying desperately to keep panic out of his voice. He knew he'd be pulled out but his nerves were prickling under his skin when the voices that were so angry outside died down once more.

"I want you to look at this."  
  
Saruhiko's gloved hand put his knife on the table alongside the few other papers strewn about the surface. They looked like newspaper clippings.

"Eight years ago there was a car bombing using an experimental chemical that has been found in grenades recovered in Homra's storage. We haven't found traces of that chemical again until now. However other chemicals in the grenades we seized from you two weeks ago cross references with about thirteen other bombings in this district over the last decade.

"One of these bombings was a school, four children were killed." Saruhiko smacked the paper down on the desk. "Another was an attempt of poisoning a water supply." _Smack._

"Another was an assembly at a high school." He was disorientated as the documents continued to be pushed in his field of vision and then pulled away and slammed down on the desk that Saruhiko was now sitting on.

  
"Another was five years ago at an orphanage where the bottom floor collapsed and took the other five floors with it."

His chest tightened as a whisper of pain flashed over the empty socket that once contained his eye. It was a scarred mess that he hid since that happened, since the orphanage both he and Saruhiko lived in crumbled into jagged pieces of concrete and plaster. If it hadn't been for the auras they recently had they would have been in the body count and Yata was still lucky to make it out of there just losing one eye, if luck could really be the word to use. Saruhiko was luckier still to make it out of the rubble with only scraps and scratches on him. Dread washed over him as the other man slammed the other paper down. The implications of this whole situation were making him nauseous.

  
He felt like a damn idiot. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the acid that was trickling up his throat where it needed to stay. His face flushed and he hung his head, blinking back frustrated, angry tears.

Yata's breathing became heavier... heavier than it had been when he had the bag over his head. The room that they were in was so small and it seemed to be closing in on them, crumbling in around them. He was starting to choke on the dust in the air, the dust that muffled the sounds of his brother and sister crying for him. The walls around him shook and fell, he could feel the rubble crushing the air out of his lungs. There was a flash of red light and a burning pain in his eye. Saruhiko was yelling for him loudly and Saruhiko was-

_"Misaki!"_

  
A sharp sting blossomed on his cheek from the slap he was just given. The walls stopped moving and the dust had cleared up almost instantly. He was transported back into the present with his arms still uselessly cuffed behind him and a traitor's face mere inches away from his.

Saruhiko's face was knitted with... some sort of expression Yata couldn't quite pin down, but it startled him and his stomach gave another lurch of discomfort. Whatever it was faded as quickly as it had come and the blue clansman sat back on the table once more. Yata's heart was pounding persistently in his ears and he took gulps of clean fresh air to calm himself down and focus on what was before him, not behind him. He was fine. He was safe now.

Safer anyhow. He licked his lips unconsciously, finding them dry and cold. His whole body shivered from the light sheen of sweat that covered him head to toe. He hadn't had one of those episodes in a very long time and he never got over them easily. His whole body ached now, his muscles cramped and stiff.  
Saruhiko didn't seem to be too phased by what just happened. That expression had long gone and that air of obligation returned.

"So... Let's hear about your dealer now that you know he is the one responsible for murdering your comrade and your siblings."

The vanguard barely noticed the blood that was steeping into his mouth from biting his lip so hard. This was a test and he was going to pass. He didn't know the information that blue bastard was asking for, but he wasn't going to let him know that. He wasn't going to let him know anything. There was no way Homra, his home, would associate with someone who murdered children. Kusanagi was more resourceful and informed than to make a mistake like that. He wouldn't have dealt with a person with that kind of track record. Mikoto wouldn't have allowed it. He would have burned him. They were both proud and honorable, just like Yata.

Furthermore, if their arms dealer, who was supposed to provide them protection also was the person who killed one of their friends, those two would have been able to track him down easily. They would have disposed of him without it ever resulting in a god damn alliance with the blue clan. That's what Yata's brain was trying to tell him through the muck and haze of emotions- panic -his heart was supplying to him.

Doubt was rearing its head, but Homra would forever be a place of importance and family to him and he firmly believed that this was all false. Even though he was given evidence to state otherwise, even though the person he foolishly considered his best friend, his family, his world at one point was sitting here pushing all the logic in the world in his face... Yata didn't believe him.

Because Saruhiko's accusations didn't outweigh the trust he placed on his clan, on his king. Because Saruhiko abandoned him in one of the worst times of his life. Because he was still angry. Because Saruhiko was a fucking _liar._

So silence was all the bastard got.

Anger flashed over Saruhiko's face and his jaw tensed when Yata didn't answer him. He could almost visualize a bucket of cold water being dosed over dark hair when his shoulders slumped from tense to forced relaxation. A chuckled came from his grinning lips, soft at first but lead into a crescendo, a mocking laugh that seemed out of touch with the reality of their situation. The blood that leaked into Yata's mouth had finally stopped by the time Saruhiko finished laughing that creepy way that reminded him nothing of the friend he once knew.

"You know... it's really irritating," Saruhiko started out, speaking not to himself or to Yata. His eyes were narrow behind the glint of his glasses and he was staring off to the side of the room. That gloved hand of his moving up to absently scratch at his chest. Yata felt the mark on his chest heat up just at the motion. But, he remained as quiet has he had been in the last few minutes and Saruhiko continued. "When you ask someone a question and they just... _don't_... answer you." The last few words were punched with venom that made the red head flinch ever so slightly.

Then that cold gaze zeroed in on him once more. A mocking smile pasted on his face with no sincerity present to tack it into place for long. Once the corners of his mouth slipped down into that familiar scowl, one hand started removing the glove that adorned the other.

"Not answering a question that could help more people than it harms for the sake of your stupid pride? Sounds like typical Homra bullshit. I'm so glad I'm not associated with you all more than I have to be. I'm glad I left them behind to continue to waste their powers on trivial things that help no one but themselves and people they deem important." The glove fell to the ground and Yata felt the damp hairs on his neck stand up at the mention of his clan and his pride. It was like he was spitting on him and it made him want to snap back. Words tumbled out of his mouth before his tired brain could stop him.

"Like you once were? Che you're right, I'm glad you left too because you don't understand shit."

"Ah, I thought you had forgotten how to talk for a while there. Usually you yap so loudly it's hard to tune you out. Now, how about you answer my question about your supplier?"

"Go to hell with the bastard." He huffed and turned his head to stare at the blank wall across from them.

Saruhiko sighed and grabbed the knife that had been sitting by the newspaper clippings, bringing it between them. If this was a scare tactic, Yata wasn't going to bite. He wasn't afraid of those knives. There were rules that this bureaucrat slave had to follow now and any damage done to him was not allowed to be permanent. Even if Yata had been in here longer than he originally thought they were supposed to be, anything that knife would do to him right now would heal. If this were a real interrogation, the second they started using physical violence against their captor it meant that they were desperate for information. In other words, as far as Yata was concerned, the second that a knife actually cut him, Saruhiko lost.

The cold steel of the blade, however, touched his cheek, flat and harsh against his clammy skin. He felt Saruhiko's body moving into his personal space and sucked in a deep breath, preparing himself for a cut or two. The flat of the knife slapped him gently, each time it did sent shivers down his spine as he saw it move out of the counter of his eye. He still felt the sting from the palm that hit him earlier, that brought him back to the present. If it hadn't been for the jarring sense that a sharp object was dangerously close to cutting him, he would have felt relief from the cool temperature against the heat of his cheek. The knife then moved his chin so they were now staring at each other again.

It was retracted then and Yata let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. A loud shuffling of metal on concrete pierced his ears as the blue clansman pulled the table closer to the bound vanguard and Saruhiko took his place back on the edge of it. He propped his feet up so that one foot was on each arm of the chair Yata was tethered to so they were now only a few feet apart.

"You irritate me." Saruhiko repeated suddenly, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. The knife was still held precariously in his gloved hand and the other one was supporting his tilted head.

Yata shrugged at him, he honestly didn't give a fuck what anyone thought of him, let alone Saruhiko. He didn't know why his chest hurt a little to think about it that way, either.

"Homra irritates me. You all drive me absolutely insane with your constant prattling of family and friendship and camaraderie. All of it is useless and makes you weak. I can't tolerate being weak, Misaki." There was a pause, his voice softening to almost a whisper. "Being weak means dying needlessly and I am not going to be weak to you or your silence. I'm not going to be weak to this pointless mark that proves absolutely nothing about myself either."

Yata stared as the knife was brought up to where Saruhiko had scratched earlier. To his mark that once showed the world that he and Yata belonged together, back to back, side by side as Homra's vanguards. That mark that was as important to his as a heartbeat. The knife passed the spot where that charred mess of a symbol once stood proudly against pale skin, clean and vivid.

The blade ended up in Saruhiko's other hand, however. Yata gulped down air, wondering if anyone was going to try to come in here and stop him before he turned that knife on Yata. He wasn't afraid though, he trusted everyone on his side that was watching this whole thing unfold. They would know when to pull him out, but the other man would probably get a few cuts in before that. Cuts were just cuts and rules had to be followed.

"It annoys me so _much_ , Misaki."

Nothing quite prepared him for the pain he experienced in that moment. That moment when the blade of the knife glowed red with Homra's aura. Slowly it ran down and drew dark blood swelling from a thin, dark cut. Not him... but Saruhiko.

His mind stopped all together, suspended in disbelief as the blade bit in deeper. The fresh smell of blood and burning flesh hit him all at once and made him feel dizzy. This was too familiar, his mind piecing together the events from the alleyway where Saruhiko willingly burned his own Homra symbol to hurt him. He was not using his red aura to hurt him again. His gaze never left the blade however, dark red liquid bubbling and streaming down only to drip off his palm.

A hiss of pain followed by a small groan set off panic in his limbs and he struggled against his restraints.

"Saru! You fucking idiot, stop!"

The knife fell to the floor beside them with a loud clatter, and that crazy smile made its way back to his interrogator's face. It was as faked and as pained as the one that he saw in the alleyway all those years ago.

"Ah, what's that, Misaki? Are you worried about me?" He laughed breathlessly and reached forward, patting the vanguard's cheek with a disturbing fondness. A wet warmth smudged his skin. He was numb.

"I'll stop if you tell me what I want to know. I have more knives and plenty more places for me to bleed from."

"You aren't allowed to hurt-" Yata started to protest, only to be cut off by the other clansman.

"You aren't allowed to hurt the person you are training with, but the rules never say anything about hurting yourself, hm?" His hand retracted from Yata's face as he reached to grab another knife from his uniform and lit it easily. "Just tell me about your supplier. Anything at all. I may try and burn the rest of the mark out of my chest next, Misaki, so why don't you just tell me before I end up really hurting myself."

Yata closed his eye, a wave of disgust and frustration and pure unadulterated anger filtered its way through his pores. He was burning and cold. He was hurting and numb all at once.

"You shitty monkey, fucking stop! I don't know anything."

Another knife was cutting along darkening area of his palm again but this time it was deeper. The moan of pain that passed Saruhiko's lips made him realize he was shaking badly.

"Saru, I told you to fucking stop! Stop hurting yourself! Ask me anything else, fuck! I told you I don't know!" He yelled, panic now driving him to thrash against his restraints with all his might but the chair was bolted down to the ground. He was starting to hyperventilate, his shortened breaths making his head feel lighter and lighter as more blood began to pool down Saruhiko's arm. He was going to lose him, he was going to lose him again.

"You couldn't protect Totsuka. You couldn't protect your own family. And yet you are protecting someone who took that family away? And now you want me to stop? Is that what you want to do, Misaki? Protect me? Get me to stop so you can sleep at ease tonight knowing you did everything in your power to keep me from being in pain? How noble!" A sharp laugh pierced Yata like the knife continued to slice away at Saruhiko's palm.

"You still get to live under Homra's pathetic cry of pride. Mikoto will be so proud of you for being strong for him. Is that what you value now? Being strong for a King who is already strong for himself? But what about the other people who died needlessly? Don't you realize you are so weak, you can't protect anyone else!" Another cut, another one. _Another._

"The irony of this situation is incredible, don't you think so? Protect Homra's reputation, Misaki, it's the only thing you can defend."

Yata shook his head, words trying to form themselves but dying in his mouth. He was speechless. The weight of those harsh words caste iron in his lungs and it was suffocating him. The person in front of him that was laughing as he tore his own flesh to hurt him... he did not recognize this person. How this deranged bastard could have possibly been someone he loved at one point in time, he would never know. He didn't see how it was possible to ever think of Saruhiko as someone who used to be so close to him. That someone who was now openly mocked the death of people he loved and-

He didn't even hear the door open and didn't see a few dark blue uniforms enter the room along with some flashes of red.

"Fushimi, that's enough!" Awashima's scolding voice drew his attention away from the blood and burns that were covering Saruhiko's hand.

Instantly, the blue clansman's posture changed, he slumped over and shoved at Yata's bolted chair with his legs that were still resting on the arms of it. He clicked his tongue and stood up, his face now vacant of anything except boredom and hints of pain. Like he was a child that had been taken away from a fun game.

A tall guy with weird hair, that Yata didn't know the name of, immediately pulled back Saruhiko's sleeve and sighed. At the same time, the vanguard felt the pressure on his wrists lessen as the handcuffs were removed promptly and Kusanagi's familiar face greeted him with worry and anger. He swallowed hard and nodded at Homra's second in command, muttering a soft 'thank you' under his breath. His arms were really sore and heavy. He rubbed his wrists but his attention drifted to Saruhiko.

"I didn't overdo it." He heard Saruhiko hiss as he tugged the stained sleeve of his uniform down.

"You absolutely did. We will be needing a full explanation of why you cut the audio feed and then decided to injure yourself." The blonde woman responded pointedly.

"Like I wouldn't have given a full debrief if I hadn't done those things." Saruhiko grumbled in response.

Yata turned his attention to Kusanagi, who was undoing the restraints on his legs now, grumbling under his breath about how stupid of an idea this was.

"Are you sure you're alright? I told them that given your history, we should have paired you with other people to practice this." The bartender murmured, finally wrestling the cuffs off. Yata stood up immediately and his knees buckled beneath him. His aura was now unladen and free. He never wanted to feel that helpless ever again. Yata leaned on the table and collected himself before he watched the man who just gave him be escorted out by two of his fellow clansman. And all of the sudden anger swelled inside Homra's vanguard once more.

"I'm going to kill him." He snarled through clenched teeth, but large hands pushed him back down in the flimsy metal chair.

"Yata," Kusanagi reprimanded him.

"No, FUCK that guy. What the fuck was all that! This was an exercise, not the god damn real thing!" He wasn't aware of how loud he was being, panic building back up in him. All those newspaper clippings, all those implications of Homra working with the person who murdered Totsuka, who murdered his family! His gaze met Kusanagi's equally heated one and the grip on his shoulders tightened.

"Yata. Those were lies to get you worked up and let something slip."

Lies.

"Then who the fuck supplied us those weapons? And-" A hand moved from his shoulder to his mouth, shutting him up effectively.

"My uncle. It's information Scepter 4 already knew when we agreed to find this bastard Colorless King and take down Jungle. My uncle is the one who gave us weapons. You did well, Yata-chan, you did really well. You didn't give any information away so I need you to calm down." Kusanagi's voice turned from stern to soothing and the vanguard finally realized there were tears streaming down his face.

_Lies..._

  
Something unhinged in him and his shoulders trembled from the whirlwind of emotions and stress his body just endured for the sake of training just in case they were captured in war. _He did well._ Yata let those words echo in his head and comfort him.

"All... of it?" He sniffed lightly and wiped his tears stubbornly away when Kusanagi removed his hand from his mouth. He was answered by a soft sigh.

"I don't know, our feed was cut off for the last 15 minutes or so. We saw what was going on through the window and came in here when it got too extreme. I tried to get you out earlier but they stopped me."

All of it was lies. All of it. The knot in the pit of his stomach tightened. He had a feeling the last bit though, when Saruhiko started to cut himself, that part wasn't a lie. The heaviness in his chest hadn't subsided yet and exhaustion was starting to take hold of his consciousness.

"Come on, you have a couple of days to recover and you haven't slept in a while." Yata was helped up to his feet again and lead out of the room. His brain was buzzing with questions but one stuck out to him.

"Kusanagi... how long was I in there for?"

"The regulated amount of time... 24 hours."

He went cold again. Saruhiko really was a liar from the very beginning. He absolutely used him and his known weaknesses to create a web of doubt that made him question his loyalty to Homra, for even a moment. Guilt consumed him as he was led to go recover with much needed water, food and a shower in his temporary dorm room.

The world was getting too chaotic for even Homra to continue to operate properly and this truce between red and blue clans was proof of that. That was the only reason why both their clans were in agreement for once. Every one of Homra's members were forced to go through basic front line training, including interrogation conditioning. They were responsible for practicing being questioned and questioning.

It had been that fucking bastard Blue King who suggested that each of the clan's third-in-commands should be paired together in that particular exercise. Who better to question you and prepare you for possible capture than the person who knows you the best?

Except Saruhiko knew nothing about him. The bitter taste of betrayal lingered in his mouth as he tongued the cut on the inside of his lip. Once this exercise was over the better and it was his turn next. His turn to ask the questions.

He was going to find out exactly how much of a liar Saruhiko was, exactly what part of what he had seen that day was actually the truth, if any of it at all.  
It was the only thought that managed to lull his exhausted body in sleep. That night he dreamed of his best friend murdering a man who looked like him. He found Saruhiko in that old house they both hated so much... A knife in his hand and a broken look on his face. Yata did nothing but watch as a twisted smile formed on his friend's lips.

Then he moved forward and he was in the building they all lived in for three years, the familiar smell of antiseptic and rotting plaster overpowered his nose. It was replaced by the smell of burning and a loud explosion that shook him to his bones made his world go dark. When he opened his eyes, all around him the orphanage fell and crumbled and his brother and sister cried for help. He stayed there, motionless as a bright red piece of rock slammed into his eye and made him scream out in pain and knocked the wind from his lungs.

When he could breathe again he was in the alleyway. That man who earlier had torn his own flesh apart with a flaming knife plunged a glowing red hand into his friend's heart and ripped at it. Yata stood by, powerless to help him. He only watched. He couldn't look away from the knife carved his skin and the man put Saruhiko's face on his own and that man used his best friend's face to hurt him and leave him cold and alone. All Yata could do was stare at him as he left, a familiar phrase lingered on his lips but he couldn't speak.

He sat up in his bed, heaving loudly, his breath coming out in frantic pants. It was still dark and the only sounds were from Kamamoto's snoring on the other side of the room.

Yata untangled himself from his sheets and laid back down, staring up at the ceiling. His body felt more exhausted now than it did when he was tethered to that chair for a whole day.

The vanguard clenched his fist, remembering the day before and the dream he just had. He scowled and turned over on his side, his back facing the opposite side of the room. He took a deep breath and reared his fist back, then slammed against the smooth surface of the cold wall in front of him.

He was going to get some fucking _answers._ Not just from Saruhiko about his given objective and about what happened between them, no he was going to find answers for his own questions, too. Namely, why worry was still tugging at his chest when he thought about that cut up hand and burnt flesh. Why he thought he saw his best friend's concerned face after he slapped him back to reality.

But in the meantime, he would continue to help track down Totsuka's murderer, and destroy Jungle if it was the last thing he ever did. Because he was a soldier and the words of his renewed resolve still fresh on his lips from the nightmare he had just minutes before. Words that he found power in, words that would make sure he was never helpless again.

"No blood, no bone, no ash."


	2. Sing Me Lullabies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, I had several life events that were keeping me from writing but now I can finally share the second chapter! I want to thank Melonflesh for being my amazingly supportive beta! You are too wonderful to me! And I'd like to thank Silverthunder for having writing marathons with me! I always enjoy our time together!  
> And I'd like to, of course, thank my wife for everything always!
> 
> Please be sure to read the tags as they have updated.

It was stifling in the room.

  
Dark and quiet to where he could only hear himself breathing in that sickeningly warm air that was making his skin break out into a sweat that chaffed under his clothing. Luckily it had not been his uniform because, if it had been, he would have probably passed out before the day's end. He leaned his head back, hoping the wall was cool enough to provide some sort of relief. It wasn't.

  
He had noticed stepping into the tiny room that was to be his cell for the next twenty four hours, that it was unbearably warm. The difference from the outside to here was enough to make him shift uncomfortably in the few hours he had been strapped down to the chair. 

The hairs on his neck were sticking to him and he was highly aware of just how small this damn room was, even in the dark. He could almost taste the air he just exhaled back on his lips. It was probably the size of a broom closet, maybe smaller. Though, the last time he was locked in a closet he had been much smaller himself.

The room had enough space for a chair and shackles and barely enough for one other person to actually administer the restraints. In this case, it had been Awashima who had done so. He could tell she was still upset with him but would probably never say it in such personal terms. Just gave him a disapproving frown when he jested that she make the restraints tighter so he couldn't feel the burn in his hand. 

"Maybe if you didn't let your personal feelings interfere with your job, you'd be more prepared to handle this." Were the only words she said to him before standing up and staring down at him. Her body language read much like a stern parent giving a warning to their naughty child, telling them to behave or there'd be more consequences. 

"I'll be back with water for you soon." And she left him alone to the silent room to his own thoughts, like he should be reflecting on exactly what he did wrong and try to make up for it. It seemed like this was going to be his 'time out corner' since he had been bad and broke the rules. Even though all he did was bend them a little. It wasn't a big deal but, of course, his superiors had to make a mountain out of a molehill. The only person he physically hurt was himself and that was nothing special to gawk at.

He let out a small sigh and almost immediately regretted it as it added to the suffocating heat that was building in the room since he was restrained. Well, he wouldn't be doing that again. He ground his heel into the floor and shifted his shoulders that were progressively growing stiffer and damper. This part was so boring, the hurry up and wait game.   
This whole thing was exceedingly stupid.

He had been through these types of exercises a few times and found that this whole process was not to his liking. Engaging with people he didn't want to and extracting information he didn't need was tedious. The assignments he was given either reacted almost immediately to any sort of lie. This provided no challenge at all and bored him. On the other hand, some shut down completely, making them useless and ALSO added to his boredom. He wasn't sure which was worse, but he had been thankful when he was told that he had passed the requirements. A passing mark usually meant, under normal circumstances, unless he was asked by his superiors to question someone, he would never have to do it again.

That is until Homra decided to play nice and join in a special truce. And now he was here. Fushimi's hand flinched subconsciously at the thought, the sweat that was building on his arms dripping from the motion adding the dampening white bandage on his injured hand. His cuts weren't deep, he knew how bad they looked when he got sent to the infirmary. All it took was a few stitches and a lecturing earful from both Awashima and Munakata before he was sent back to his room. He was sure he'd have to deal with the consequences later, but that was to be expected, and the current state of affairs did nothing to soothe his mood. He could have been doing something important other than all this nonsense.

He cursed Jungle everyday for escalating their agenda so early in the game. He was sure that they had been laying in wait for an opportunity to open so they could spring into action and the news that Totsuka Tatara spread through the veins of the Internet more quickly than he had imagined. It was probably one of the worst outcomes of the entire situation, that Jungle found out and acted so quickly during Homra's weakened state after being dormant for so long. Between constant attacks on their clan, Homra exhausting their resources trying to find this supposed Colorless King and Munakata trying to interfere to bring as much peace and order to the current state of affairs; tensions were high. If only Jungle had just kept quiet a little longer. At least until they found this Colorless bastard, a truce with Homra wouldn't have been necessary.

He hadn't been brought into the exact dealings of the stupid alliance, just given the retrospective details and a new list of obligations that only added to his already heavy work load. This 'training' just happened to be one of his new responsibilities. The possibility the enemy capture was incredibly likely since Jungle sprung into action and their numbers were larger than expected. They were active many years before hand but fell quiet once the Blue King rose to power. However, they were still a mostly unknown force that was shaping up to be quick at responding to situations as they arose, everyone needed to be prepared for the worst. 

Which meant this messy exercise. Preparing each other for the chance that they were taken behind hostile lines and hard-pressed for information.

He unconsciously licked his lips to wet them and found his tongue to be a little too dry, causing it to stick to the corner of his mouth, just enough to make him notice. It just drew attention to how the heat was creeping up on his skin. He closed his mouth and started to only breathe very little out of his nose. He closed his eyes and tried to relax his body once again. His hand was starting to throb which meant his medication wore off. Must have been five or six hours since he had been in the room. Really, the hardest thing about this was going to be the waiting. Or at least that's what he told himself as he tensed subconsciously. 

Seemed he lied to himself more and more these days. 

After some time, he noticed his head feeling lighter with every strained breath he took. He was completely drenched now and his eyes were stinging from the excessive heat that was bearing down on him relentlessly. He felt like his skin was being rung out like a wet sponge. That was the point of this room though. "The Oven" was the unofficial name of this place. He had never been in it and had only seen it used a few times, but he knew exactly why he had been put here. Given his past track record with interrogation practice, this room was probably best suited for him. It was the room that was used to condition harder-to-break subjects.

He almost wanted to laugh that he wasn't given the exact same treatment as Misaki had been; a cold room, loud noises and restricted breathing. Instead it was suffocating heat, complete silence and a very real possibility that he would become quickly become incredibly dehydrated. It didn't seem as extreme in theory, except Fushimi was quickly learning just how effective this could be. The desperation of wanting to leave the current conditions, he could see how it would easily break someone who was not trained for this specific scenario. Even if a soldier was trained for this, like he was, if there was an experienced interrogator in front of him...well with the right amount of pressure, he would snap. 

Except it was Misaki that was going to questioning him and what exactly he was going to question him on was... An unknown factor. That made his stomach lurch with discomfort at the thought. It was different when it was one of his subordinates, someone who respected or feared him because of his position, Misaki was... Nothing like that. And the point that he didn't know exactly which line of questioning he was given as his objective added little comfort to his racing mind. 

For Fushimi, he was given the task to extract information about a supplier that had been dealing firearms to Homra for the last few months since Scepter 4 had no public information on the exact source. He knew it was something that had already been settled since the clan truce had been so quickly negotiated. However, he had been under the impression that this was just an obvious line of questioning, some common fact everyone now knew of. Something easy to try to break the ice with. However, because Misaki had always been stubborn, he didn't get the hints that the vanguard actually had no idea who their supplier was. It should have been an easy enough prompt, something that probably shouldn't have gone on as long as it did. 

He couldn't say he didn't... enjoy it, even just a little bit. Making Misaki react the way he did. He had no concrete reasons why he felt some twinge of excitement whenever they had the opportunity to lash out at each other, but some small part of them still craved their encounters. They had a long history that ran as deep as the blood that felt like it was starting to boil under his sweating skin. They parted on the worst of terms at the worst of times and Fushimi had written him off as an anomaly that meant nothing to him in the long run. That could mean nothing to him in the grand scheme of things. Yata Misaki was a fluke in his life that he just couldn't manage to get away from. A piece of his life better forgotten for both their sake. And now... 

He hardly even realized the stretch of his lips on his face until they cracked painfully from the smile that crowned his face. Another thing he couldn't hope to try to understand, he supposed. No matter how many times he hurt the other, no matter how many times he cut him out of his life, it seemed Misaki was as permanent in his consciousness as that scar on his chest. That scar that proved that how absolutely worthless connections like that were. That proved he wasn't strong enough to carry the weight of guilt that plagued him every day since that orphanage fell. He didn't need hindering friendships like that... that only weighed down his pursuit of surviving in this hellhole. He didn't want to see that patch of leather that covered Misaki's eye ever since that day to serve as a reminder of his constant failures to connect to people as family, as friends.

The eye that Fushimi was responsible for carving out with a fiery piece of deflected rock. 

He remembered those seconds like they were hours of his life. 

The walls falling all around him, panicked screams filling his ears, realizing that his voice was mixed in with those cries for help.   
The aura he obtained just two weeks previous to the orphanage collapsing roared to life. It coursed and mixed with the adrenaline pulsing through his veins, uncontrollable fear that flared at his nerves until he felt like he was going to burn down with that building. He was going to burn to death from the inside out. 

Instead, that flame that swallowed his entire body, pushing debris away from him with the speed of bullets as he fell. The ground breaking beneath him flew up around him and he knew this was it. He was really going to die a meaningless, useless death. This power meant nothing in the end. He was just as worthless as he had been before, doing nothing but avoiding the inevitable truth that he was someone made to be thrown away. Someone like him did not deserve friendship to someone like Misaki, who was so full of determination and hope despite his hardships.

 _Misaki._

Misaki was the only real thought in his head as he was threatened to be buried under meters of destroyed walls and floors and- That's when he saw him out of the corner of his eye. There was a fire, even brighter than his own glow right beside him, reaching for him as massive pieces of drywall and steel where being ricocheted off of him. There was Misaki. The last thing he saw was blood that was streaming freely down his friend's face before the whole world slowed into a blur and they were both shoved down under a mountain of rocks. 

They were lucky, if that was the word for it. That power ended up sparing their lives and they were both able to push their way out of the rubble and walk away from the fresh graveyard of so many children left parent-less by this war. Fushimi was far more fortunate than his friend, whose face was sporting a large gash over his left eye. He didn't say anything after they managed to find each other in heaps of smoking rock and burning bodies. There was nothing to say as they looked around for both Megumi and Minoru, Misaki's younger brother and sister. After what felt like years of looking, Fushimi just took Misaki's hand and squeezed it with a shaky grip. Fushimi didn't even know how he remembered the way to the bar where they had received their new powers just weeks beforehand. It was the only place left for them, with a king that burned marks into their collars. 

How they ended up avoiding the media coverage, he still didn't recall to this day. The event was labeled one of the most devastating tragedies of the war. There were no survivors as a bomb took out the bottom floor of the structure and the rest of the shelter went along with it. 

It had been the worst day of Fushimi's life, but nothing compared to Misaki. Not only had he lost his mother and step-father the year before, but also his brother and sister. There was no one left to call his family. When they were taken in by Homra, Misaki got proper treatment for his injury and quietly told Fushimi that it wasn't his fault about losing his eye after days of healing. He just took his hand and held it tightly, reassuring him that they both didn't have enough control over their new power, it could have happened to Fushimi too but it absolutely wasn't his fault that he deflected that rock into his face before Misaki had time to react. But it absolutely was his fault.

He had baited a trap and fell for it, and here was his best friend, trying to be strong for him. Trying very much to reassure him with a sad, lonely smile. Misaki had never seemed so small and defeated before, pushing through his pain and tell Fushimi that nothing was his fault as he cried from the loss of his family. It gripped Fushimi's gut to think about how someone as optimistic, strong willed and determined as Misaki could crumble.

The irony of the situation often coated his throat in nausea when he heard Misaki cry about it in his sleep and when that same boy threw him sincere smiles of reassurance. 

He hated it. He hated all of it. 

Fushimi Saruhiko was someone who was better off without those types of attachments that did nothing but make him weak. He was better off without being close to those he would eventually hurt. Those types of failures that did nothing but make him crumble under pressure, that made him lose focus. That made him feel human.   
His head snapped up as a rush of cold air hit him like acid had been thrown in his face when the door opened. He couldn't tell who was there but water was soon being forced down his dry throat and he struggled to take in as much as he could, even if it was choking him. He coughed and heaved once the liquid quit trying to invade his throat and lungs. It was enough to relieve his parched mouth and felt cool on his burning face. It was almost disorientating how quickly it happened and he barely caught the words that were whispered in his ear. 

"Don't die, you shitty monkey, I have a lot of questions." 

It took few seconds for his head to catch up to the feeling of tightness that spread across his chest. The words sunk in like the water that was joining the sweat building up on the collar of his shirt. His heart raced with vigor and the ghost of that breath on his ear was sweltering. He heard the door close and a heavy metallic bolt lock into place and he was back in the silence, only Misaki's voice echoing in his ears. Like he would die from something like this. The idiot. 

He shifted again in his chair, trying to concentrate on his breathing to once again find calm. He must have been on his eighth hour, at least. That was the maximum amount of time an interrogator had to wait to give water to the suspect in this room. The air that leaked into the space provided some relief to him, but only just. He slid his eyes close, the humming of nothingness settling back into the corner of his fading consciousness. Patches of colors played in his head, splotches of purple that mimicked veins.   
This was probably what hell was like, if such a place existed. 

Darkness, heat, and Misaki's face; that face of disbelief, of anger, of pain, lashing out at him, mocking him. That face that, just a few days ago, almost sung to him a lullaby that his old friend still cared about him. But that made no sense, it shouldn't have been that way. Nothing about that hurt that flashed across Misaki's expression was clear to him. Misaki should have just cursed him and answered his questions. He should have laughed when he hurt himself in such a way just to get a god damn answer out of him. It was comical that he resorted to such a theatrical tactic as cutting his hand just to try to get any information out of him. It was disgusting that Misaki still had so much power over him. The sickness that was eroding his stomach fell to unconsciousness as thoughts of burning heat overtook him. 

It was calm.

Until ice cold water hit him in the face in his next waking moment, drenching his entire head. His hold body reacted, struggling before Fushimi's mind could make sense of his surroundings. Shock ran through his entire body, making him thrash like a wild animal caught in a trap. Like a little boy caught in his father's demented games. His head was tilted back and held in place by a hand gripping his hair. More frigid water poured over him and up his nose making him cough, choke even. It was hard to breathe and he could feel his lungs sear in pain from the invasion of sudden cold and the lack of oxygen riddling his body. 

Whoever was holding him back let him go and he coughed again, spitting up the water and gasping for air. Simple but effective. His clammy skin was now tight under his damp clothing and he shivered. He took in a few more gasps of air and spat the remaining water that trickled down his throat from his nose out to ground before daring to open his eyes. The water mixed with the sweat stung his eyes and his vision blurred. There were lights, normal overhead lights that flared out in obscure patterns, he could make that part out. It was already hard enough to see because of the water that hugged onto his eyelashes but also due to the lack of his usual glasses. Even so, he could tell that Misaki made a motion of sitting at the table in front of him. The glint of the metallic buttons and trim on his uniform were the only thing he could make out clearly to identify him. It was the trembling of burning pain in his chest that truly identified the other man. He could feel it just beneath his skin, like a second heart beat that resided in the Homra mark on his chest.

He blinked a few more times, still breathing harder than he'd ever care to admit. The water dissipated from his sight and he let out a hard sigh. Misaki's gaze locked onto his own and he felt his stomach clench in retaliation. He looked down away from the heated look that burned through him worse than that oven room just had, worse than his own fingertips on his skin. The buttons on his jacket caught his eye again and he instead focused on the uniform that didn't suit the vanguard at all. 

Homra was just a street gang with a powerful figure head and access to weapons. They had minimal structure and the organization of their group was flimsy at best. Another reason why Fushimi never fit in there. He couldn't deal with a ragtag bunch of wannabe heroes that lacked structure and reeked of their own volition. Misaki most of all, his pride and determination renewed after the loss of his family and got in the way of rational thinking and planning. Those things were probably the only true benefits Fushimi had ever brought to the table when he once sat along with Homra, planning to take out some local drug traffickers or some other low level thugs like they were destined to do so.   
Yet here was one of their most prominent members, as wild and uncouth as ever. The only difference was a uniform that suggested organization, tactical planning and poise.

Everything Homra was not.

It was hard to focus, his body still aching from the intruding water that woke him, exhausted from the heat that captured him for however long he was in that oven room. A quick look around told him he was in the same questioning room that held the vanguard for the entirety of his interrogation test just days ago. He noticed the video feed line had been reconnected which made him click his tongue in irritation so he settled on the blurry outline of Misaki's face.

“I would ask for your name and position, but it’d make me sound like a cocky bastard.”

That glare was still dead set on him, staring into him. It was exhilarating and humiliating. He wanted nothing more than for this whole thing to be put behind him so he could actually do his real job. Misaki’s determination was going to be his undoing in this situation and he knew it, somewhere in the back of his mind. He came to terms with the idea that he was going to answer any and all of the other’s questions. He had nothing to lose and the quicker this was over, the quicker he could go back to his Misaki-less state of being. It suited him, being useful without that impending sense of guilt lingering over his every action. 

He shifted in his chair and hummed a soft response. He finally felt his pulse calming down and the blood that was rushing in his ears settle. He took a deep breath, relieved when he exhaled that he did not feel heat backlash on his face like he had before he passed out. 

“Fushimi Saruhiko, Third-in-command of Scepter 4.” He mumbled, although made sure he spoke loud enough for the other to hear him. 

“I didn’t ask.” 

“And I don’t _care_. Let’s get this over with, I’ve wasted enough time playing with you, Misaki.” 

A loud smack on the table in front of him drew his attention back to Homra’s Vanguard with a start. He swallowed his apprehension and leaned back in his metal chair, meeting Misaki, eye to eye. The leather that bound Misaki’s injury caught his wavering focus more that the heat that was emulating from the other side of his face. Misaki’s fist had collided with the table, the reverberations from the impact shook him more than he cared to admit. 

He scoffed as the other man opened his mouth to speak. 

“You think I want to do this? I don’t want to be in the same room as you, Saruhiko. Not after everything you’ve done.” He heard Misaki practically spit his name in disgust. That’s right, after everything he’d done, he deserved to be hated for all of it. Even things Misaki didn’t know about, he deserved to be hated for all of it. It had been the determining factor in joining Scepter 4 in the first place, Homra being so weak when he looked at the larger picture. Weakness meant bad things would continue to happen, even with their growing presence in the prefecture. Their tiny super hero acts were nothing compared to what he could have been doing with a government sanctioned army. Homra couldn’t stop cyber-attacks, Homra couldn’t stop bombs from going off, Homra was no savior to anyone except those precious few on the streets of their turf and the members that made up the clan.

If anything, Homra only made themselves easy to target and take out. Totsuka Tatara had been a prime example of that. Fushimi was never going to be a target again, to be hunted down like some creature and slaughtered.

Silence had passed between them and the blue clansman could feel his own irritation building up inside him. He was already incredibly exhausted from being trapped in that small room that made him nauseated from the heat. In other words, his nerves were already on edge and Misaki’s presence was just as daunting as that room had been. 

“Are you going to ask your damn questions or not? I told you, I want to get this over with.” 

“Why did you lie the other day?” Misaki's inquiry came out soft but stern, hesitant but direct. It made him clench his teeth. 

Why did he lie? Because only liars survived in this war torn world. Why did Misaki actually care about any of it? It was obviously a lie. That was his job, to get information and extract it anyway he knew how. 

“My objective was to get information out of you and I knew you’d fall for it.” He stated simply, knowing that wasn’t going to be enough to placate the other man. Fushimi also knew this was absolutely not the ultimate goal of this interrogation. This was a self-indulgent hunt for truth, how very Homra… how very Misaki. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Misaki had stiffened behind the table, no longer looking at him. He was quiet again, mulling over what he had just stated, most likely. Now that was strange, usually Misaki was a match, quick to react to a situation and flickered strongly until his fire was no longer necessary, then turned himself off or got light bigger fires if the situation called for it. This was different, personal and deep, everything between them was going to be this way any time they met. It was a chemical reaction, the two of them. They played off each other in perfect harmony, reacting while the other pushed.

That was why Fushimi let himself get so carried away. This person in front of him was the biggest flaw he had, the only person able to unhinge his own fire, to make him want to act in the moment as the situation happened. Those times never left room for calculating and processing an escape route or strategy. That made him weak. And that scared him. When they were together, they were strong both physically and mentally. They were a perfect circle, always watching each other's back while taking on their own unique role. Misaki was a go-getter, a hot-headed ball of rage. And Fushimi was the planner, and the gasoline that spurred Misaki's already heated passion and anger into a bonfire.  
At the same time, that overbearing heat threatened to engulf him completely, much like that small room he had just been in had. The severity of thinking this way had drove a splintering wedge between them that only added to the nauseating guilt that hit Fushimi in the very core of his chest when he was with Homra. He did not belong there, he did not deserve a place by Misaki's side. Anytime he looked at the other's face he was reminded of that simple truth. He did not fit in there. The installment of his aura reinforced that belief, hot like a poker branding his skin. 

"So, that's it, huh? Your fucking objective made it so easy for you to lie to me like that? I know you have issues, Saruhiko and you're a liar but for you to play me like that?" It started off so quiet, and cold, he almost didn't catch it until it crescendo-ed into a growl of anger.

"If you thought that was easy, then you really don't understand a thing. You have to lie to survive in this world. You have to play the game, yeah? I just won that round, Misaki." Fushimi replied with forced disinterest masking his voice. He clenched his fist and hissed gently under his breath as burning pain shot up his wrist. He had almost forgotten about his hand. 

"Don't address me like you have the goddamn _right_ to use my first name like that. You tried to throw them under the bus and I don't fucking like it. Is this what you blues do? All this underhanded shit like you're saints and we should worship the ground you walk on?" The vanguard's voice was strained with disbelief. 

Ah, there it was, the spark that would grow into a fire if he fanned it just right. He had wondered when it would make an appearance. Fushimi flipped the switch that he was always so good a pressing. A bonfire was soon to follow. He just chuckled in turn before the red clansman spoke again. 

"I'm not going to use fancy lies to do this, Saruhiko. I'm going to get straight to the point. Tell me about your past associations." So that was it. A smirk spread on Fushimi's chapped lips. Fucking typical Munakata, wanting to know more about his recruit's past since he obviously didn't want to give up that kind of information so willingly to his superior. 

He remembered earlier, well what must have been the previous day by now, that the Captain actually told him that he would be watching the proceedings. That was pretty underhanded and clever. Fushimi had passed the formal background check but the Blue King was a nosy man who liked to know more than professionally necessary about the people in his organization. His options for proceeding presented themselves in the escape path he was carving for himself. He could always lie or he could just work Misaki up to a fit of rage that would make him walk out. He intended to do the latter. It was easier and reinforced his ulterior motive of keeping the other far away from him

"My past associations? You mean Homra and you? Is there really that much to tell, especially nothing impressive. You know everything already, don't you?" 

"Apparently, I don't." Misaki scowled with resentment. It was a touchy subject Fushimi intended to stab with a knife. "Why did you leave Homra, Fushimi Saruhiko?" 

Fushimi leaned his head back on the wall, staring anywhere that wasn't Misaki and let out an exaggerated sigh of mock irritation, clicking his tongue.

"Because you were all useless thugs playing heroes and I didn't have time to waste on pretending to be family with all of you." Because he was not supposed to have a family. Family was just a weakness to use against him, the world had already shown that to both of them.

"Was that all we were to you, a waste of time?" 

"Yes. I did just say that, didn't I? You still hearing that humming from a few days ago? You should see a doctor about-" 

"Was I just a waste of time too?" Misaki cut him off suddenly.

Fushimi felt a tight pain squeeze the uncertain air out of his lungs. His words caught in his throat before he could muster them. 

"Something like that." They were much more quiet than he intended.

The silence that hung in the air between them was now deafening. Their parting of ways had not been gracious or tactful and since then, not a word had been spoken to the reasons why Fushimi decided to leave. It was all another lie he told himself when he thought about it, because it was easier to do it this way, to speak harsh words because the truth was so much harder. Homra was just one small part of the equation to why he left, it was convenient cover for underlying reasons that gave him nightmares to this day.

"That's bullshit, Saruhiko." Anger broke Misaki's voice as he spoke and Fushimi's attention fell back on him. Misaki, who was not looking at him but down at the table like it was a bother to look at him. He noticed the tassels and chains on his uniform quivering in the artificial glow of the light above them.   
Come on now, where is that pride of yours? Did I really burn it away that easily?

"Is that so? You think I'm lying to you about how I really feel about you, Misaki? Do you think I would have left if I felt any sort of affection for you?"

"Shut up." 

"Do you think I would have left Suoh Mikoto's side if I thought that any of you would add up to anything valuable?" 

"I said, _shut up_ , Saruhiko." 

"You think I would have walked away from you so easily if you were actually strong enough to survive. You're weak, Misaki, we were both weak and I am so much stronger now!"

"I said fucking shut up!" 

He didn't even see Misaki stand up, let alone jump over the table. He only felt his shirt collar get yanked and then he was face to face with probably the only person he would have dared to consider a friend at one point in time. That glowing amber eye staring, mere centimeters apart from his own. The dark leather that adorned his face was jarring against Misaki's chestnut hair and tanned skin. It didn't belong there, that patch to hide an eye that once shown as brightly as its twin, the one that he had destroyed with misguided panic.

This was all just some cruel joke and Fushimi Saruhiko was the punchline.

It was a joke he was still laughing about. Even now, five years after the event, he laughed. It hurt, this hollow, pitiful laugh that shook his shoulders humorlessly. He laughed until Misaki's hand closed over his throat, his fingernails digging into his skin until Fushimi could no longer breathe. Just as his body began to struggle for oxygen, the grip lessened and he was released from his choke-hold. Misaki was still glaring at him, his jaw as tightly clenched as his fist. 

Fushimi blinked back tears that welled at his eyes from the deprivation of air and swallowed hard, breathing in as much as he could and coughing away the ghost of Misaki's hand. 

"You don't get to try to get under my skin like that. I'm not stupid, Saruhiko. I see what you are doing. You're trying to get out of this by making me want to leave. It isn't happening." It was very obvious that Misaki was trying to actively calm himself down as he sat against the table.

His breathing was just as ragged as Fushimi's and determination settled in his knitted brow. He was right, that determination was going to be the flaw in this whole equation.

This was going to be messier than he wanted it to be. 

After moments of collecting himself, the redhead tensed and kicked at Fushimi's boot, indignantly.

"Let's get this over with. Do you have any other associations with anyone else you'd like to share?" 

Back to this then.

"I'm not the sharing type, but no." He saw a glimmer of the end in sight, exhaustion was hovering over his mind as his adrenaline from being gripped so tightly began to ebb off. His body pulsated from the ache that spread from being the same position for so long. His hand throbbing against his damp bandage that was probably spotted with blood.

"Oh yeah, Saruhiko? What about Jungle?" 

Fushimi blinked, hard, staring at Misaki like he was some entirely new creature he had never seen before. 

"What... did you just say?" 

"You heard me. I said what about Jungle, Saruhiko? What about your past ties to them?" 

The vanguard anchored himself back into the rickety table and stared down at him. 

How... 

"Oi, I can escort you back to that oven room if you want to be uncooperative, I've got some time on my clock if you want to think 'bout it. Or we can finish this right here, right now." 

Misaki's mouth was moving, he could see it, but the words were slurred to the point where it took a minute to sort out what he had actually said.

Panic began to short circuit his nerve endings, setting them ablaze and dried the inside of his mouth so words were impossible to speak. His brain finally caught up with the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

How? Did he know the entire time? Did he know this whole time that Jungle had caused the bombing of the orphanage? That they did so because of his interference with them?   
He swallowed hard, his jaw tensed in apprehension as he analyzed Misaki's facial expressions. His lips were still moving but he heard nothing. How could he possibly know? How could he know that he had tried to hack their system and activate a virus that would have, in theory, wiped out their whole operation?

He had spent a few weeks working on it with the almost primitive technology the orphanage had. He slaved over it, night after night. He had to sneak into the quiet floor deep in the middle of the night and work off the antivirus software they had. It took so much longer than he wanted it to. Fushimi swore that he would be a beacon of strength for the Yata family that just the year before had left them parent-less through another bombing event that was Jungle's doing. It was never a promise he spoke aloud but it was what kept his head on his shoulders. He vowed to work hard to keep his new, broken family together.

So when Homra whisked Misaki's attention to power and strength that he could not even hope to compete with, it set a chain reaction of anger that gave way to jealousy of the entire group. His best friend was star struck by how hands-on Homra was, how quick they were to save people who needed them. The fascination was becoming a force to be reckoned with and held not contest to the small promise of strength that Fushimi tried to uphold for them all. He was just a flickering light against the radiance of the sun. He cursed that sun.

When his friend begged him to become part of the street gang, he found himself agreeing though he had doubts. He didn't trust a group of adults who wanted nothing from them. Adults weren't to be trusted normally, and especially lazy ones like Suoh Mikoto that Misaki started fawning over.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, his own pride that blinded him into hastily throwing together something so dangerous and ill thought out. The thought that someone with as much power as this supposed King just sat around and had underlings do his bidding felt more like a villain than a hero to Fushimi. He was too reminiscent of another adult in his life that he was supposed to trust by rules of biology and society that ended up being the thorn in his side for far too long. It was a fatal mistake that he was cured of without much remorse.

But the idea of someone as headstrong as Misaki falling for those charms of someone with a fancy title invited hardened feelings of resentment that painted over him, layer by layer. Suoh Mikoto was not there for Misaki when he got news of his mother and step-father dying in a raid a year previous. Suoh Mikoto was not there to hold his hand when Misaki had to tell his brother what happened. Suoh Mikoto was not the person who hacked into the orphanage's records and created their profiles in the database so they would all be placed together. That was never Suoh Mikoto, but this man, this King of hooligans was the person that Misaki started to put his blind faith into.

It struck a very sore spot in Fushimi's heart that soon hurt worse than anything he had encountered so far. Soon his best friend was speaking of nothing but Homra and Mikoto and he grew sick of hearing about them. All this talk about how they could do anything and no one would be able to mess with them, not even Jungle, had become so tiresome that Fushimi wanted to prove him wrong. 

He could actually be that unstoppable force his friend craved so badly. And he could be that strong with Misaki or for him. He was powerful and clever. He had it in his mind that he was going to take down Jungle just to prove a point. He was going to make Misaki look at him again, and make him realize that he was strong enough to protect their world.

He was wrong.

Horribly wrong.

He wasn't patient that day, when his temper finally snapped from hearing about Homra being preached to Minoru like they were God's very gift to mankind. He stood up and told Misaki he had a headache before sneaking downstairs to the bottom floor to go forward with his plan.

He was anxious, excited even, to try. He had always been gifted at creating technologies, even programming so building this virus was simple. He had found Jungle's main base of operation some time ago in the bellies of the deep web. Fushimi was sure the government was probably keeping tabs on them as well but that had nothing to do with him. He was going to handle this himself. However, when he booted up his program, the entire computer shut down only thirty seconds or so after he started, leaving him alone in the dark. Disappointment clung to his shoulders as what he assumed was a power surge. He would try again another time when there was a more stable supply, probably during the daytime when their energy cycle wasn't being as heavily regulated for conservation reasons. In his mind, he was sure that he didn't even have enough time to properly boot up the virus to even start his attack. It was a huge blow to his pride but he told himself that he would get another chance.

Wrong yet again.

There were sounds that were coaxing Fushimi back to the present but they were still not audible syllables but muffed tones and intonations that made him feel like his world was nothing but some augmented reality. None of this felt real as he watched Misaki's expression change.

He was frowning deeply and opening his mouth again. Sounds came out, he was sure, but fear was quickly making comprehension impossible. Misaki uncrossed his arms, staring at him. That gaze that rightfully held contempt for him, disgust for him. If he knew about all this, he must have known that he was the reason Misaki lost not only his eye, but his brother and sister. 

When did he find out? Did he understand that Jungle zeroed in on the location that the threat came from just two days later and blew up the building to eliminate anyone who was trying to oppose their goal? If he knew this entire time, how could he have stayed in the same room at Homra with Fushimi the years following? How could he still smile and reassure him that it wasn't his fault about his eye? How could he- 

How could he have still called him his friend? How could he fight side-by-side with someone who betrayed him long before Fushimi ever left Homra? None of this added up. There was no way. No, if Misaki knew, he would have killed Fushimi on the spot. If he had just found out, he would have murdered him whenever he had a chance. He wouldn't want to share the same room with him now, he wouldn't look so concerned right now.

Why did he look so concerned right now? That was concern, right? It was hard to tell as his vision tunneled and all he could see was the skewed vision of someone yelling at him. Shaking him?

All these thoughts overwhelmed him, he didn't even know he was hyperventilating until a flow of icy cold water was dumped over his head.  
The water made him gag and cough as he inhaled it like it was meant to be breathed in. 

"Saruhiko!" The shaking to his shoulders returned and he finally heard words pick up speed into a normal speech pattern again, the ice water shocking him back to the present.  
Misaki was there, just like when they were kids, that look of worry and pity written all over his complexion. This was not the face of someone knew that his best friend had caused the death of his younger siblings. Nothing was adding up.

"H-hey are you okay?" Misaki asked and pulled away from him. Fushimi felt his hammering heart beat cease, leaving him more exhausted than he imagined this whole exercise would have. He had had enough of this ride.

"Saruhiko-"

"I'm fine." He lied, not even trying to make it sound sincere. 

"Just ask your damn questions." He mumbled, his voice hoarse and breaking from the strain he was currently experiencing. 

It earned him another deep frown that he didn't care for. 

"I didn't realize you still reacted so badly to the mention of him." 

For the second time in this conversation, Fushimi was confused. His drenched face must have given that thought away that even someone as dense as Misaki could comprehend because he continued.

"You know... your dad."

The blue clansman stiffened as he tried to sit up more properly but couldn't due to the restraints. Why Misaki was mentioning him, he had no idea. What the hell did that have to do with anything? He was beginning to feel itchy under the clothes that felt like they were becoming a second skin to him. He didn't say anything but he felt the weight of guilt in his chest ease ever so slightly as he waited for Misaki to continue.

  
The vanguard turned his attention to the corner of the table, picking at it absently at it like he was contemplating wanting to continue.

"I mean, he was in Jungle, yeah? You always said he was involved in sketchy shit and you wouldn't be surprised if he was some hacker for them. I mean... that's why he was killed right?"

All of the sudden things were starting to make sense to him, all the pieces of the puzzle were fitting neatly in his mind and the guilt that Misaki wore on his face put the whole situation in perspective for him.

When Misaki asked him about his ties with Jungle, he meant to say that he thought Fushimi's father was one of their members? It had absolutely nothing to do with the bombing that claimed so many lives.

This was his escape route.

"He might have been, but he is dead now, so what difference does it make?" He answered, coldly, his brain calculating the advantages of playing this line of logic.

"Are you the one who killed him?"

That made him laugh. This time it was quieter and controlled. Relief perhaps? 

Misaki put all this together on his own, did he? He didn't have a clue of the actual sin he had committed, but one he thought Fushimi was absolutely justified in committing? But in truth, he had no idea why someone had murdered his father. The shady bastard deserved to die, the only regret he felt when he discovered his body was that he hadn't been the one to do it. 

Actually, there was one more regret tied to the event, Misaki had the one to find them in that cold, empty house with the body of Fushimi Niki that was littered with knife punctures. Fushimi had even found the knife and imagined what it must have been like to have that kind of power. 

Bitterly, he had no idea who had done it, but he was quietly thankful to them just a little bit. It was never something he wanted to find out either, he just preferred not to think about it. He never had to deal with small rooms to hide in. He didn't have things he loved being destroyed in front of him as soon as he showed attachment. He never had to see that twisted smile, except when it smiled back at him in the mirror sometimes, just a trick of light that always managed to take him aback and make him feel like he was nine again. 

Somehow, though, as if he was cursed, he felt like he was just repeating the same things that man did to him. He burned everything he touched. Which was all the more reason to leave Homra behind, to leave Misaki behind. It was kinder this way, to join Scepter 4 and make a positive difference than stay in Homra and continue this path of destruction they were most infamous for. Just like Fushimi Niki.

But now the rare opportunity presented itself and the way out of this session became more clear. Either he could admit to killing his father and end it there, or he could tell the truth and prolong the affair. Since Misaki seemed to have a level head at the moment, he decided now that lying would be more beneficial.  
He found himself nodding softly, stomaching the guilty conscious that threatened to make him vomit and found his poise.

"Seems you found me out." He whispered, not able to shake the ache of his mouth as he continued to smile.

"W-wait seriously? Saruhiko."

"Yeah I killed that man. He was a miserable waste of space that was probably assisting a force that was hurting a lot of people. I did everyone a favor."

It was Misaki's turn to look at him like a vile creature he had never seen before. He covered his mouth with his hand, worry flashing in his eye before reaching out to him. Like he was afraid. He should be afraid of him.

"Saru."

"Are you satisfied now? This exercise is over."

"Saruhiko, wait a minute."

"Why, Misaki? There's nothing else to tell? He was dangerous and I got rid of him. Me, by myself. I stabbed him, Misaki. He pushed me too far and I destroyed him. The world should thank me." Another laugh laced his lying lips as the vanguard's hand stopped, hovering over Fushimi's cheek. 

Just then the door that lead out of the room opened with a heavy lurch and made them both jump. 

"Oh I think that's enough for one day. You both did well." The sound of the Blue King's voice trailed in from the doorway. Fushimi clicked his tongue and rested his head against the wall, letting out a sigh. Now it really was over. The sooner he could get away from Misaki the better. He couldn't bear to look at his face anymore. It hurt too badly.

Another presence entered the room and he felt the air get warm around him instantaneously. He knew that aura well enough that he didn't even have to look at Suoh Mikoto to know it was him.

"Ah, Mikoto-san." Misaki's voice bubbled with respect and made Fushimi want to gag. He looked down at his restraints as Munakata undid them. His wrists burned and he rubbed at them gingerly. It took everything in his power not to look at Homra's vanguard talk to the Red King, swelling with pride as he was told he did well.

He barely heard his own King tell him the same thing. A cold plastic pair of glasses was pushed onto Fushimi's face and the fuzzy details of his surroundings came into sharp focus. He wearily stood up and wobbled ever so slightly. Enough for Munakata to notice and help steady him.

"You were in the conditioning room for standard regulated time but it seems Homra's Yatagarasu wanted to get this done with quickly." He explained, not that Fushimi asked. He always managed to do this, read anything and everything on his clansman's mind. It was annoying but sometimes useful.

"He wasn't the only one." Fushimi felt a flare of jealous anger bubble in his stomach as he watched Misaki talking still to the slouching Red King. Both Kings looked far too worn down but Fushimi imagined they'd be worse if they didn't have each other's back in this escalating war. It wasn't something he wanted to think further on.

"Well, come now, Fushimi-kun, you need to rest and then we will reconvene in the morning to debrief on our practice." 

He almost rolled his eyes but nodded and began to move towards the door. He was ready for a shower and to try to get some sleep. The officer knew that even though he was so tired he would not sleep easily without assistance from a very strong pain killer.

As they left, Misaki's chattering stopped. 

"Saruhiko." He spoke out, cautiously, like he was approaching a rapid beast that could kill him with one bite. How tedious.

Fushimi turned around, still a little unsteady from the hours of sitting without being able to move.

"Why did you do it?" He asked quietly. "I mean, I know he was a bad guy but... why did you-"

He didn't even bother to answer except with a click of his tongue. Then he turned on his heel at a dizzying speed and walked away.

"Oi! Saruhiko!" 

He didn't turn back, never bothered to look back into that confusing face that filled him with dread and longing. That face that made him weak and vulnerable. That face he adored and destroyed. 

His path was clear, his drive stronger than ever before. He was going to play his role to make up for the hundreds of lives he took from his attempts of power. That's why he was going to keep Misaki as far away from him as possible, because he did not deserve that connection with anyone else ever again. Because he had to pay for his mistakes in solitude. 

After years of honing his auras for Scepter 4, he had found level ground in his path where he didn't have to hurt anyone except himself to obtain power.  
He could tell his resolve was wavering. His chest burned as his steps grew heavier and further away from the voice that was still calling for him, that perfect opposite of him that his heart had no right to crave for.

He felt Munakata's hand on his shoulder, again like the man was in his head. Not another word was spoken and the urge to look back faded into a dull ache. He knew the debriefing was going to be annoying, especially since he lied about killing that guy, but he could explain it away. What was important was that it was done. What was important was that Misaki didn't know the truth that plagued Fushimi every day of his life. This war was heartbreaking and ruthless.

And they were going to end it, it was a new promise of strength Fushimi made to himself the first night he spent in his own room at Scepter 4. They were going to end this, then maybe... maybe, he would be able to calm the ocean doubt and regret in his mind. Maybe then...

He shook his head and continued to move forward towards the infirmary, that determination lighting itself anew, the promise as fresh in his head as the day he made it. He would not end up like that guy, destroying everything he could before it destroyed him. He would not allow it to happen again, anything like that night he foolishly jumped into something so far over his head that he couldn't see the consequences.

Because Misaki deserved peace from the hell that Fushimi had brought him.

That was his cause, and his cause was pure.


End file.
